hold the foreplay
by mako-lies
Summary: After Dean ditches Cas's ass, Meg finds Cas working at a gas station. They eat some pizza. [Meg/Cas. Contains dubious consent, discussion of past rape, and the consent issues associated with demonic possession.]


**Contains:** dubious consent, the consent issues associated with demonic possession, and discussion of past rape.

* * *

Cas rings up the fat man with a wry grin, his eyes so blue she's almost wet with them. Then he says goodbye to the guy so cheerfully it's nearly disgusting, but she approaches as the man departs. "Howdy, Clarence," she leans her hip against the counter, placing the bubblegum in front of him. "You had more faces last time."

His human smile falls. "Meg." Cas scans the gum with a shaking hand. Almost like he isn't happy to see her.

Then again, being a wingless monkey probably isn't his proudest moment. It's still a step up from crazy town, in her expert opinion. Meg offers up a crumpled five she lifted off some kid. Cas scrutinizes her face, his nose all scrunched up cute and his full mouth pursed, but he accepts the bill—trusts it (her)—and hell, will Clarence ever learn?

"Your form…" He counts out her change so slow it hurts, a deep ache somewhere in her stolen chest. "I don't like it as much as the other. The one I could see before."

Ah. So now Cas can only see Meg's meat? Weird. Maybe not, though. This is the longest she's inhabited the same body and—well—this body has seen some shit with her. It's been touched by Lucifer, tortured by Crowley, kissed by Clarence—it's not a bad body, all things considered. She shifts inside of her skin.

"Charming as ever, Clarence. You're making me weak to my knees." Meg takes her change.

Cas bites at his bitable lower lip. "Would… Will you meet me here? I am free after ten."

Maybe she can convince him they should buy some pizza. Maybe she can convince him she's a good ally to have, now that he's been turned out alone into the cold. He's been turned out like her, and she smirks before she can think too hard about anything besides biting his mouth. "See you then, hot stuff."

* * *

She waits beneath a streetlight that flickers with her presence. At 10:15, he enters the light, still all in tacky blue that somehow makes his baby blues bluer. Winchesters left him to rot, then, slow, putrefying in hot dog water and slushies. Drowning with that perfect customer service smile in place. The smile he turns on her now, like she's going to buy what he's selling.

(Hello, this is the angel of Thursday, may I grant your miracle? Yes, Clarence. I'd like an extra large pizza, hold the foreplay.)

"…What happened?" he asks her, pressing one smooth hand to her elbow, hot but without the tingly feeling his touch used to leave.

She pulls away, to yank the now-warm gum from her pocket, and she gives him a piece like a miracle. Lip caught between her teeth, she watches as Cas stuffs it inelegantly into his mouth, but his arms settle stiff at his sides. Meg leans against the streetlight, and the bulb whines as she considers how pristine he is, as if somehow he has clung to that angelic cleanliness. But the illusion is ruined by the cheap soap smell. He smells worse than a Winchester.

"Crowley caught me," she frowns at the stars—can't help but think that the boys left her to rot again. Somehow, the Winchesters doing the same to Clarence doesn't make anything better. Something like desperation claws at her gut, but she can't—can't examine it. "Again. He wanted information about some weapons Yellow Eyes stashed away and to make me an example, because Crowley is King of the Crossroads, not of originality."

Clarence chews his gum more quickly, but he keeps his hands to himself. Quick learner. Guess he's gonna have to be, what with his fall from Grace and everything. Somehow, he seems more lost now than he did when he waxed lyrical about her thorny beauty and bees. "You escaped?"

"Most of Crowley's goons jumped ship to Abaddon's crew. Got out in the middle of that mess." Meg grimaces; avoiding the Hell Knight will probably be a good plan. She prefers life—or, well, the extended cut of the unlife.

Clarence gulps down his gum very seriously, so he can say with a bitterness she expects of Dean, "As a human, I have nothing to offer you."

"I wouldn't say nothing, if you know catch my drift," she says, and lifts her eyebrows, leering—can't be clearer than that, and maybe as a human, he's gotten some game. At her sides, her fingers curl tight.

His expression shutters. But then—then, he breaks into a grin, crooked as she is. His eyes are a morose blue as he watches her. "I understand," he says, and if she were to kiss him, she'd taste her gum mimicking his former minty clean. "…Will there be pizza and moving furniture?"

Meg latches a hand to his wrist that sits so neat and pretty at his side. She keeps himself from bruising him, but she wants to mark him. "Anything for you, Clarence."

* * *

Pizza grease drips down his chin, a polluted river, to pool on the bed. Meg bites into her own slice. Of everything America's done wrong, pizza still rubs her raw. But Castiel stuffs more and more into his mouth, cheeks bulged out, and it seems humanity has taught him gluttony. She averts her gaze from him.

Angels, learning. Who'd a thought.

She offers up her half-eaten piece, clear indents where her teeth tore. Clarence eats it without thanks, mouth too full for talking, and he's going to make himself sick if she lets him. But she isn't his damn babysitter anymore.

Meg presses her hand to the distended curve of his stomach when he finishes.

A sweet little groan gets pushed out of him, his head tilted back and eyes scrunched shut. "Meg," he breathes out, nearly reverent, or she imagines it to boost her ego; she's isn't above that.

Meg presses Castiel down flat, adding more pressure where he's bursting, just another lost human coping with food. But he isn't. He isn't just another human, and she bares her teeth at the soft flesh of him. "Meg," a whine now, pitched higher than she's heard his voice, and she warms in her pit—funny, she'd assumed she wanted his rasp.

Maybe she wants it all. (Of course she wants it all.)

Finally, he looks at her, shows Meg that dark dark blue, his cheeks all flush with blood. To think of this meat as him—she wonders if she could possess him, burrow down deep inside and hide beneath his skin. "…In my experience," his voice that dark gravel she loves, "we need fewer clothes."

Let it not be said she keeps an angel (former angel) waiting.

* * *

Meg lifts off his flaccid cock. Still-warm come drips down her thighs as she settles beside where he sweats. "You should sleep, Clarence," she says, considerately.

Regardless of her consideration, Castiel quakes, breathing erratic. "I—" he cuts off to take a breath that's doesn't calm, "I need to-to go—" and he stuffs his wet shaking self into his clothes but he keeps glancing back—not at her, at the bathroom.

"Castiel—"

But he flees. Meg slinks out of the bed, his leavings drying crusty on her meat. She makes as if to grab for her clothes, to give chase—except he obviously didn't want to be here. And she thinks of Crowley and his girth, and she curls her lip—evidently, size isn't everything. She showers away his memory.

* * *

"Howdy, Clarence," she says, placing a coke on the counter.

Clarence scans it without lifting his eyes. "Anything else?" he asks her, ringing Meg up with the same care he'd shown her clit last night. She keeps herself from reaching for him, but only barely.

"No." Meg hands him a soggy ten. "You took off quick. Good way to hurt a girl's feelings."

"I'm sorry." He offers her her change.

The next customer takes her place.

Near midnight, just as she considers she blowing out of town, Clarence comes to her door. She admits him into the hotel room. "Done giving me the cold shoulder?" asks Meg, without flicking off the TV. Forrest sheds his leg braces like dead skin, while the chick screams at him to run even though he already is.

"I don't want to sleep with you," he tells her, softly, but his top button is undone, exposing the delicate curve of his collarbone. "I… do. But I don't."

"…Probably should have brought that up before, Clarence."

He perches at the foot of the bed they fucked on. "I didn't realize. I'm sorry."

"Whatever. You going to watch the movie or stare at me all night?" Meg shifts to give him room. "I'll keep my hands to myself. Scout's honor, Clarence." The curl of his mouth suggests he knows exactly what honor demons are capable of.

Castiel comes to rest beside her. "…I… something like this has never happened before."

"Dunno about angels and vessels…" Meg stretches languidly, buying herself time to figure out what she's going to say. She's never been on this side of the equation before, but how hard could it be, right? "But when I possess somebody, their meat remembers. The body remembers. Certain things in certain bodies? I gotta fight harder against its memories to keep control."

If Castiel understands her, nothing in his expression shows—that intent gaze of his fixed on the TV. He says, "I believe I've heard of this movie."

"It's good. Shut up and educate yourself, Cas."

When his stomach growls, he raids the mini bar, and she doesn't stop him as he scarfs more candy than any person should likely eat at once. The bulge of his cheeks seems somehow desperate. Meg doesn't press at his lily-white belly, no matter the draw of it. A smear of chocolate at the corner of his mouth distracts her, till he licks it away. Meg considers ordering more pizza, but she decides to be good. Enough.

"I could cure you," he tells her, muffled around his mouthful of chocolate, "I could save you. You'd be human."

"What, you really think I'd be a better human than a demon, Clarence? Thought idealism was the domain of Winchesters."

Humanity quickens the promise of death. But, then, he wouldn't be the only supernatural thing gone human. Maybe what Clarence wants is the company. (Hell, she knows. She knows what's it's like to be up high then cast aside—running scared, tail between the legs.) She rearranges the pillows so he has an extra. "Your soul would not be twisted," he tells her, earnestly, wrapper crumpled in his fist.

"Right. I should make it easier to get killed. That makes sense."

Castiel takes her hands in his, candy wrapper falling between them. His skin is almost fever-hot, and he reeks of sugar as he leans his face towards hers, nearly nose-to-nose. "You could go to Heaven, Meg. Think of it. That's what you wanted, isn't it? That's why you served Lucifer? You wanted Heaven. I could give it to you."

"Being human isn't a go to Heaven free card. Come on, Clarence," she tries to pull away, but he holds tight enough she can't disengage without hurting him.

"Meg," he kisses at her mouth, raw, and she imagines him bulging with her, "Please."

And because she's bad and horrible, she kisses him back. And, because she's a sort of a sucker, too, she pulls back to say, "Knock yourself out, Castiel."

Something inside swells as he beams.


End file.
